Taste
by cookiesinmycereal
Summary: The flavours that accompany Arya and Jaqen's various encounters at various points in time. *possible spoilers* Disclaimer: I obviously own nothing. I'm simply playing with George R.R. Martin's characters in his enchanting universe :D
1. Sour

The chill that spiced the soft breeze bought a shiver down her spine and left goosebumps on her skin. The weather grew progressively colder as they travelled north, it reminded Arya Stark of her home in Winterfell. Mother, Jon, Robb, Bran, Rickon, Sansa.

Father.

It had been more than three weeks since she left King's Landing, since she heard the sound of Illyn Payne's Valyrian steel sword slice through her father's neck. Survival was her first priority. She disguised herself as a boy as she travelled with a bunch of criminals, bastards and outcasts, for, she was told by Yoren, that if she travelled as a girl, she would be found, raped and sent to Queen Cersei. She listened to the flow of the stream and the chirping of the birds as she collected firewood in the lush, green foliage, picking up each branch and examining it before adding it to the pile she carried between her left biceps and forearm.

Deciding that she could not carry any more, she walked back towards camp, where she knew Gendry would be waiting for her. Gendry had been nice to her since day one. He was stout, muscular, had a shaggy head full of black hair, blue eyes and a kind smile. Having previously been an armorer's apprentice, the boy of about fourteen was as strong and stubborn as a grown bull, (which according to him, accounted for his bull head helmet) and Arya was glad to have him as a companion. They watched out for eachother and thought of him somewhat like her favourite brother Jon.

Arya eyed the three caged prisoners curiously as she walked past them, her forehead wrinkled so that her bushy eyebrows almost touched. Her incredulous gaze was met by a man of around twenty-five to thirty years who had strange red shoulder length hair with strands of silvery white, a slim pointy nose and striking grey-blue eyes, not unlike her own.

"Boy, lovely boy." he called to her in a raspy whisper  
"What?" she replied, cautiously as she approached, subconsciously noting Needle's slap against her leg, as if the pointy little sword was sending her a message of warning.  
"A man has a thirst, this lovely boy could make a friend" he said softly in the common tongue that mingled with a foreign accent, holding out a tankard.  
"I have friends!" she said, insulted.  
Suddenly, one of the other prisoner sprang forward and growled at her. The man resembled a vicious beast without a snout, his fangs were bared as he snarled.  
"Beer" he growled through his teeth, "Get us beer! Or I'll skin you." Soon, the third prisoner joined in. The first prisoner looked apologetically at Arya and bowed his head. He shot a sharp glance at the other two and they went magically mute.  
"A man does not chose his companions" he said, "These two have no courtesy, I must ask for forgiveness."  
When she did not respond, he continued,  
"You're called...Arry?" he asked  
She nodded.  
"This man has the honour to be Jaqen H'ghar, once of the free city of Lorath"  
"Get us BEER you little shite!" interrupted the second prisoner sinisterly.  
Arya had had enough. She angrily threw all her branches to the ground, drew her wooden practice sword and began beating furiously at the prisoner. She wanted to teach him a lesson, as if the act were a sudden outlet of her bottled rage, she bashed at the steel cage over and over, jabbing her sword into his flesh, rattling the bars and sending the prisoner a few inches back to avoid being whacked. Although her father had died, she was still a Stark of Winterfell and Starks of Winterfell were not ordered around by prisoners, especially not ugly prisoners with no manners! She saw that the first prisoner wore a smirk on his face all the while.  
"Come closer and I'll shove the stick up your arse and fuck you bloody!" threatened the second prisoner.  
At that, Arya, drew back and began to withdraw from close proximity of the cage, the rush of adrenaline had passed and the feeling of fear hit her hard. Fear cuts deeper than swords, she told herself.  
"A boy has more courage than sense..." the first prisoner noted, as Arya recollected the scattered branches and walked briskly away.

* * *

"Yoren said we're not supposed to go near those three!" chided Gendry, slightly alarmed as Arya recounted the encounter later that afternoon.

"They don't scare me!" said Arya, putting on her brave voice.  
"Well you're stupid, 'cause they scare the seven hells out of me." Gendry replied.

* * *

Gendry, Lommy and Hot Pie were already fast asleep. That evening she sat before the fire, deep in thought. Calling the episode involving the Gold Cloaks a 'shock' would have been a bit of an understatement. As if to drive any worry of the Gold Cloaks from her mind, she suddenly remembered the handsome Lorathi. Arya replayed their brief conversation, head swimming in even more questions, drawn by the element of mystery that surrounded him; _how did he end up in the dungeon in King's Landing? What had he done? What happened to his weird hair?_ The stranger seemed intriguing compared to the Gold Cloaks, those, she did not want to think about...

* * *

Arya grabbed her tankard and tiptoed to the beer barrel, trying desperately to minimise the sound of crunching leaves under her small feet. She poured some beer into the tankard and made her way towards the cage. All three prisoners seemed to be fast asleep. The Lorathi man sat up straight with his head bowed, while the other two leaned into the bars in awkward positions, snoring rudely. Disappointed, Arya turned to leave but stopped in her tracks when she caught sight of fluttering eyelids on the sleepy Lorathi man, as if her sensed her presence.  
"Did the lovely boy bring a man his drink?" he rasped, while his eyes remained closed and his head remained bowed.  
"How did you know I was..." she began  
"A man can listen with his ears." he replied casually, now fully facing Arya with his eyes wide open.  
She handed and tankard to him through the bars of his cage and watched silently as he thirstily chugged down its contents , his adam's apple jolting up and down.  
"Would this lovely boy kindly fetch another?" he asked.  
She did as she was bid and returned with another beer, again, handing it over. This time, he drank slowly, almost gracefully, taking one sip at a time, slowing down his rate of consumption. Still, the girl stared at him, puzzled.

Finally, the Lorathi man stopped drinking and addressed her.  
"A boy has many questions" he stated.  
"Who are you really and why are you here?" she blurted, as if she had no control over her tongue.  
"As I told you before, this man is currently Jaqen H'ghar, from Lorath." he said, smiling, "A boy needs not know much about this man, just that he has made a new friend. Now go boy, off to sleep, before you get into trouble for this, before my two unruly companions threaten you again. A man has heard that tomorrow will a long and tiring march. A boy will need as much sleep as he can obtain before first light." Arya noticed he now spoke in a soft, rich, low baritone rather than a raspy whisper and wondered if this was his real voice. The voice sounded lovely in her ears, she found it rather... captivating.  
"But I can't sleep." She protested, simply wanting to hear more of the sound. He looked at her for a second, considering. Finally, he extended his arm towards her, returning the cup, "Drink, and a boy will sleep soundly." he said. Their fingers brushed as she reached for her cup, the contact left her embarrassed, so she hid her face from him by drinking all the leftover beer. It tasted rough and strangely bland, very different from the beer she had tried back at Winterfell. It left a horribly sour aftertaste, but she felt content and decided she was tired after all.  
"Alright. I'm going to sleep," Arya declared.  
"Good night, lovely boy" he whispered as she turned abruptly on her heels and strode quickly and quietly back towards the dying campfire to join Gendry and the others.  
"Good night Jaqen H'ghar." she replied under her breath, not bothering to look back, quite sure he had not heard her.

His low chuckle told her otherwise.


	2. Bitter

Foul stench of rot churned the girl's stomach and made her nostrils flare. 'Weasel' swept silently through the remains of Harrenhal castle, scraping her fingertips along the rough, cold stone wall that she knew had been baked by dragonfire more than three hundred years ago, going about her daily business of fetching water, wine, food and running errands for her new 'master'. Yoren had been killed during their capture by Lannister men some five months prior. Taken to Harrenhal, she had almost lost Gendry too. The one who they called The Tickler had chosen to interrogate him about some 'brotherhood without banners'. She was now the cup bearer of Commander Tywin Lannister, her brother's enemy. Arya listened closely to battle tactics while she served, desperately drilling her head for ways she could contact Robb, hating the fact that she knew almost everything but could say nothing.

Her one and ten name day had come and gone, the girl didn't feel any older or stronger. On the contrary, she felt even smaller amongst these brutal men; and much, much more vulnerable. She would hear the sounds of women being dragged into the bushes and assaulted. Their screams of horror and agony made her heart shrivel in despair, the way those sadistic soldiers laughed cruelly at pain and humiliation made her rage. She could only hope that her body would not develop anytime soon. Each night she lay with her head in the hay, repeating those names like Yoren had taught her; Joffrey, Cersei, Illyn Payne, The Mountain, The Hound, Polliver, The Tickler. It disgusted her. To think that she had been reduced to reciting the names of her enemies like a bloody prayer, as if she was surviving solely on her hatred and her life meant nothing else. What has become of that cheerful, innocent, happy Arya Stark? _Oh that's right, the girl thought sarcastically, Arya Stark died the day they slandered her father's name and executed him before an angry crowd. Only the body of Arya Stark remains, a body full of hate, anger and vengeance. I am no longer Arya Stark of Winterfell, I am nobody._

* * *

As the girl turned turned a corner, she noticed four tall, strong-looking men in red and gold armor, one of them with strange strands of silvery-white littered amongst the head of red.

_Jaqen?_

It was the first time she had come face to face with him in five months. He had called himself her friend and so she had helped him. How stupid she felt. Seeing him in the Lannister armor forced the hurt of betrayal to grow in the pits of her stomach, fury burn in her head. _I had helped him, _she thought_, and now he has become one of Lannister's dogs, staining his sword with the blood of my brother's men. He joined them, he joined those men who killed Yoren. And I was the one who helped him. I should have let him burn._

She lowered her head as the four men drew closer, casting large shadows one by one over her small frame as they passed, for she knew the only way of survival was to stay unnoticed and out of trouble.

Arya made her way down to the water barrel as she was bid and found a tall figure leaning against the barrel with his long legs crossed over and his arms folded before his chest. _Jaqen_. _How did he get here before I did?_ She gave him a look of pure contempt and turned to walk away when she suddenly felt a grip on her arm. It was firm and sure. Unable to shake off the grip she turned and looked at the man, her face wearing an uncomfortable expression, his face unreadable.

"A girl says nothing...a girl keeps her lips closed, no one hears, and friends may talk in secret, yes?" he said in the foreign accent that she once welcomed. She nods her head once in response and he let go of her arm.  
"A boy becomes a girl." he said, almost teasingly.  
"I was always a girl" she retorted.  
"And I was always aware" he replied casually, "But a girl keeps secrets, it is not for a man to spoil them."  
"You're one of them now, I should've let you burn" she said accusingly, voicing her previous thoughts.  
"And you fetch water for one of them now," Jaqen stated matter-of-factly, "why is this right for you and wrong for me?"  
"Because I didn't have a bloody choice?!" rage creeping into her voice.  
"Ah sweet girl, you did have a choice, I had a choice, and here we are." he replied calmly, taking a step towards her, backing her into the stone wall, closing in and towering over her. Their position much too intimate.  
"W-what do you want." she stuttered uncomfortably, eyes wide and shifting.  
"A man pays his debts. A man owes three"  
"Three what?"  
"The Red God takes what is his, lovely girl, and only death may pay for life" At that moment she felt her body freeze, blood running rapidly from her fingertips to her muscles, numbing her body, her eyes widened in terror. _Fear cuts deeper than swords Arya, fear cuts deeper than swords...only death can pay for life?! Is he going to kill me?! I saved him, how can he do this? I thought he said he was a friend, not a foe!_ She instinctively positioned her arms defensively around her torso. He smirked. Moving his face closer to her ear, he whispered in that smooth baritone  
"Sweet girl, I only want three names." Arya looked at him quizzically.  
"Names?"  
"You saved me and the two I was with," he said, withdrawing to face her, "We stole three lives from the Red God, I have to give them back. So speak three names lovely girl, and a man will do the rest. Three lives I will give you, no more, no less..."

* * *

And so there was one less name to hate. It seemed as though The Tickler had accidentally fallen from Wailing Tower. The sight of is distorted neck gave her a strange thrill of satisfaction, as if revenge had been taken and justice had been done. Arya looked up, not surprised to see Jaqen looking right back at her, the corners of his lips pointed upwards and dimples appeared as a small smile widened across his face. He flicked his hand from his temple, saluting towards her with an outstretched index finger. One down, two to go.

* * *

"How did you do it?" she asked  
"How did I do what?" he asked in return, watching her silhouette dance with the blazing flames. It was eerily quiet. There were no counts of rape, or drinking or brawls that night, not after the mysterious death of the Tickler. Arya found Jaqen sitting alone on an empty barrel, absently watching the fire.  
"How did you kill him so swiftly without anyone suspecting or noticing?" she asked again.  
He gave her his signature grin and continued,  
"Ah, lovely girl, I serve the Red God. A man must do what must be done. He keeps the delicate balance between life and death as the Red God commands." She responded with a face of bewilderment._ The girl has not lost all her innocence,_ he thought_, she is still just a child_. He laughed and patted the barrel next to him, signalling for her to sit. Once she was seated, he continued,  
"Let us just say a man is good at his trade."  
Her eyes widened in realisation, her childish looks returned to her face and she no-longer had the demeanor of an under-grown adult. The girl was quite adorable.  
"You're an assa-"  
"A keeper of balance, yes" he interrupted  
"You trained a lot?"  
"Just so."  
"I want you to train me" she sounded almost pleading.  
"No, sweet girl, that was not part of the deal, there was only lovely death." he said in a voice of silk and steel.  
"Yes, but-" she protested.  
"No buts. The names you have on your lips every night, I presume they are the reason you want to train?" he asked.  
"Jaqen, you do not understand" she replied sharply, "I want them to die, I want to see them die, more than anything, but it is more than that. I want Death to take them by my hands. Seeing the Tickler's death delighted me. My father told us that if we were to condemn a man to death, we owe it to him to kill him ourselves; to look him in the face and hear his last words..." there was a pause and a sigh,  
"I want to learn your trade." After staring into his eyes for a long, hard moment, Arya turned her head to look into the flames. She could feel Jaqen's cold grey-blue eyes on her, obviously weighing his words. _The girl has much potential, _he contemplated_, but her sense of identity is much too strong._  
"Lovely girl," he said, "you know that anyone can die and all men must eventually die, one must simply wait. This Joffrey, Cersei, Illyn Payne, The Hound ;The Red God will claim them one by one, with or without your offering."

She was overcome by a sudden feeling of sadness and despair. Mesmerized by the fire, her vision began to blur, a single tear unknowingly left her eye and rolled down her cheek, followed by another and then another. Arya did not know she was crying until a foreign wetness washed over her face and trickled onto her neck. She hastily willed the fountain of tears to dry, without success. The girl brought both her hands up to wipe the tears off her face. Jaqen beat her to it. He slid his fingers along her slim jaw and tilted her face toward him. Startled by the contact, Arya looked at Jaqen and held still. _She's just a child who needs to be comforted, _he told himself_, no more, no less._ His thumb caressed her cheek, wiping away the delicate tears as he drew her towards his chest and placed a soft kiss on her forehead.  
"Hush, lovely girl, your master would be displeased to see red swollen eyes tomorrow morn." he whispered while lightly patting her on the head.

She didn't punch, she didn't kick, she didn't squirm, she just cried. The hollow in her chest caved in and out as she struggled to breathe. Arya felt as though she had never properly mourned the loss of her father and her separation from her family. It occurred to her how ironic and absurd that she would never let her bestfriend Gendry see any moment of weakness, while she poured all her sorrows, instead, into the bosom of a mysterious assassin, one who she could barely trust. But nevertheless, this man had attacked her emotional defence mechanisms and she willingly let her guard down. _So much for not being weak_.

After a while the girl stilled and her breathing evened out, _the poor thing had cried herself to sleep_. Careful not to wake her, he carried her to the to the 'bed' she had made for herself amongst the other servants. He set her down slowly and again stroked her cheek. She stirred a little.  
"This really is no place for a lady" he murmured under his breath, absent mindedly.  
"I, Arya Stark of Winterfell, am not a lady," she whispered in her sleepy, slurred speech.  
"No, you are not," he agreed, "You are a warrior, a young wolf." He smiled to himself, spontaneously leaned forward and planted a trail of soft kisses from her forehead, brow to her eyelids and down her cheek. The girl sighed and smiled contently.  
"Good night, Arya Stark" he whispered. Jaqen squeezed her hand once more and retreated into the darkness.

He noted the distinct taste of bitter tears on his lips as he walked into the howling winds of the night.


	3. Salt

Crack.

The whip sliced through the air and came down hard on her bare skin.

Sting.

The skin reddened.

Gush.

The wounds exposed themselves. Deep, scarlet and disgusting. Red hot liquid oozed slowly from the fresh cut. It's going to scar she thought. The man threw his whip to the ground furiously, as if the whip too had done him wrong, and proceeded to kick her several times, digging his heel right into her stomach. Sharp jabs of pain followed. The girl did not retort nor did she defend herself, it would only make matters worse. So she simply lay there, wearing a defiant face, repressing her stone cold anger. She would not show weakness. Not to these loutish men.  
"Respect your superiors you little shite head. Next time you speak to me like that, I'll have your tongue." he spat vehemently, kicked her once more and marched off. Her clothes were shredded at the back, each gap in the cloth had a lash of angry red underneath to correspond, her jaw was throbbing and she felt drops of blood roll down to her chin from the corner of her mouth.

Arya turned her head to look at Hot Pie.  
"I look just as bad as you do, don't I?" she rasped  
"Aye" he replied.  
When Hot Pie had been accused and beaten for taking an officer's food, Arya had defended him. The Ghost of Harrenhal had forgotten herself and challenged the officer to "Prove it." Admittedly, it was not one of her brightest ideas. The next thing she knew was the slashing of tough leather against her back and her body being hurled to the muddy ground. _Fear cuts deeper than swords_, she told herself, _and definitely deeper than whips_.

It was not the first time she had been beaten like this and it certainly wouldn't be the last. This type of violence was only mild compared to what she had seen soldiers to do the others: fingers, toes, eyes, limbs and even manhoods were lost at the blades of angry swords. The twelve-year-old girl considered herself one of the lucky ones. She still had all ten fingers, ten toes and even her maidenhood intact, but she was not sure what would become of her the next time she crossed a drunkard in the dark of the night.

Bearing the intensifying ache, the girl hoisted herself up to her feet.  
"A little help?" pleaded Hot Pie.  
"No, get yourself up. If it wasn't for you, this wouldn't have happened" she replied, gesturing to her body, bloodied and bruised. The girl limped away, clutching her stomach with her left arm while she steadied herself against the wall with her right hand.

* * *

Night clouds cleared and pearled light of the full moon shone through, lighting her path as she made her way down to the stream inconspicuously. Hidden in the depths of the woods, Arya called it her 'secret place'. It was not wise for serving girls to use the bathhouse, so thankfully, she had been able to find a close substitute. The sound of the wind whistling through the trees immediately calmed her, the prospect of treading cool water gave her peace. She hadn't told anyone about it, not even Gendry. The girl went to the stream to cleanse herself whenever she thought the dirt and grit on her skin was becoming hard to bear, or after she had flowered each month.

* * *

The clattering of armor pulled Arya to an immediate halt. Panic and anxiety rushed through her, befuddling her senses. Clearing her head, she stealthy took cover behind a shrub on the bank, watching as a tall lean figure undressed and stepped into the stream. The soft sigh that followed sounded low and silky as he sat himself on a rock and began to scrub at his skin with what seemed to be a wash cloth. She studied the familiar profile of the figure, noting the distinguished slim pointy nose as well as the tell-tale strand of silvery hair. _How did he find this place? Why isn't he just using the soldier's bathhouse?_ Having grown up with five boys, it was not the first time she had seen the naked male anatomy. However, this was different. While her brothers were boys when she had seen them, Jaqen was obviously a man. The girl watched as moonlight bounced off the defined thigh muscles and shadowed or enhanced the various dents and welts which decorated a broad, toned chest, trailing down to a muscled abdomen. She gasped and blushed as the pit of her stomach lurched, prompting a feeling of yearning to pulse through her body; making her want to touch the pale skin and finger the various scars. Her focus on the sight of a naked Jaqen (as perverted as that sounded) almost completely obviated the pain of her cuts and the ache of her developing bruises.

Abashed by her overly erotic thoughts, Arya turned to leave when the low baritone stopped her.  
"Care to join me, lovely girl? The bathhouse was much too crowded." called Jaqen, almost seductively. She did not even bother to wonder how he knew she was there, but wanted to ask why he had not caught her out earlier.  
"I was actually heading back - "  
"We are friends, are we not? Friends in the free cities like to gather in baths and chat about duels and battle scars, did your dancing master not tell you that?" teased Jaqen, "From what a man has heard tonight, he gathers that this sweet girl gained many battle scars?"  
"I wouldn't call them 'battle scars'..." she said hesitantly and approached the stream, "and I don't think it would be appropriate for a girl and a man to...bath together..."  
"If a man displease a girl, then a man will leave." he said, climbing out of the stream to towards his clothes. She reached out and stopped him, surprising both of them.  
"Please...please stay. I might need...help with the cuts on my back." The girl was glad the darkness hid her growing blush.

As Arya undressed, Jaqen reentered the water with his back towards her, only turning to face her when he heard a few faint splashes and felt the movement of displaced water, knowing that her body would be fully submerged below the shoulders. She held her breath as she entered the water, shivering. Cooler than usual, it felt as if little needles penetrated her skin and the chill pricked at her bones. She almost called out as the water threatened to sting and twinge at the contact with her open wounds and yet, after a while, the cold of the water calmed her inflamed skin as she settled beside Jaqen. The girl was close enough to catch the aroma of sweet spice rolling off him and feel the heat of his body. She was simultaneously embarrassed and delighted.

There was a comfortable silence between them as Arya cleaned herself, lightly scrubbing the dirt from her skin. Jaqen watched as the full moon and the constellations were hidden and in turn revealed by the few wispy clouds that roamed the night sky, moving with the slow breeze.  
"Jaqen?" she whispered, breaking the silence.  
"Yes?"  
"My back...will you?"  
"Yes." He lifted the petite frame out of the water with ease and perched her onto the smooth rock he had previously been sitting on. Her body was lithe and small and skinny, yet he could see the faint outline of developing curves on the girl's body, the acute widening of her hips and the growing swell of breasts. Noticing his lingering glance, she covered her body with her arms defensively, he chuckled, moved to her back and crouched behind her. Her ribs showed through, expanding and contracting with every breath she took. Her spine was much like a dragon's, each bone almost protruding through her tortured skin. Littered amongst many angry red strokes were five large cuts on her back with rough edges, like rips in thin paper. He did the task with great care, tenderly addressing each wound but drawing hisses of agony from the girl nonetheless. Tendrils of rage spawned as he made his way down her back. He wanted desperately to do a hundred times worse to the man who had hurt her. _Faceless Men have no emotions_, he thought,_ but you have let yourself care for the girl? You know that one day you shall eventually part ways as strangers, why have you become attached?!_ Impulsively, Jaqen leaned forward and placed a kiss close the biggest slash and hastened to chide himself right after;_ if a Faceless Man has no self control, then he is not fit to call himself a Faceless Man..._

Arya was slowly kicking at the water when she felt what seemed like soft kiss on her back. She stilled and turned her head to look accusingly at the man behind her.  
"Jaqen what are you-"  
"Hush, lovely girl, a kiss to make it all better?" his voice smooth, uncertain and a shade apologetic. The rapid pumping of her heart, encouraged her to leap onto her feet and run in embarrassment. She began to do so but lost footing and felt herself falling, gravity taking her into the water. A large hand grabbed her forearm and pulled her to her feet before she could hit the water surface. They were both standing now. Jaqen reeled her in and steadied her against him, her pert breasts pressed into chest, his manhood pressed against her thighs. For a moment he indulged himself and embraced her, placing one hand on her waist and running the other through her wet hair.

But it was only for a moment.

He released her.

She looked up at him, grey meeting grey, heart pounding hard against her chest, body hot, despite the cool weather. Feeling bold, she reached out, bracing her hands on his chest, touching the curious scars beneath her fingertips the way she had wanted to before. For once, his expression was readable: conflicted, as if he was speculating the outcomes of his potential actions. Mustering up her courage after a long, searching look...she reached up on her tippy toes and planted a chaste kiss on his lips. It drew no response from the man, for it really had taken him unexpectedly. She pressed another kiss on his lips, but this time, she lingered, moving her mouth unskillfully against his, doing the best she could. He was stoic, neither encouraging nor discouraging her ministrations. She pulled back slowly, meeting his gaze with watery, innocent doe eyes, as if begging for him to return her kiss. He felt a tug in his heart and pulled her back towards him, slithering one hand onto the small of her back to hold her in place and tracing her the curve of her neck with the other, bringing her chin forward as he began to kiss her, moulding their lips together and begging for entrance, access she willingly granted. The rough scratches of his stubble felt foreign against her face. She let him explore her: he did not disappoint, doing a good and thorough job of it and was rewarded with a throaty moan. The kiss was at first sweet, soft and searching, but grew increasingly passionate as Arya learned the steps in this tango of tongues. The girl began to venture out, to fight for the dominance, that Jaqen would not easily surrender. It was like water dancing; learning the steps, keeping up with the tempo, to and fro, giving and taking. The tip of her tongue tapping teasingly to the roof of his mouth, his teeth nipping and dragging at her lower lip, drawing blood. They could both taste the salty iron but chose to ignore, focusing on the pleasure of sliding tongues, moving lips and tingling touches.

Arya drew back, exhilarated and began to pant for breath. She trailed her left hand up his thigh towards his crotch, feeling his body tense at her touch. She paused.  
"Did I do something wrong?" the girl said, looking up at him with those innocent doe eyes, again.  
"A girl knows not what she does." he said sternly.  
"I do know what I'm doing...kind of..." she replied and pressed on to take his manhood in hand. The girl did indeed know of the business between men and women that happened in the dark. She had seen a thing or two whilst trying to escape Gold Cloaks near brothels in Flea Bottom. Jaqen took her left hand, raised it to his lips and pressed a tender kiss to her fingertips.  
"Lovely girl," he said gently, "not tonight."  
"But Jaqen -"  
"A girl is too young for this-"  
"Jaqen, I'm not! I started bleeding four moons ago...I" she hesitated, choosing her words and forging her argument "I _was_ Arya Stark of Winterfell, I _was_ a highborn lady, but now I am not, I am nothing but a servant girl living under someone else's name; doing all that people bid her, having no control of her own." He could feel the lovely girl turning into a fiery she-wolf...  
"But you listen to me Jaqen H'ghar and listen close; I have control over this one thing and I will not let you take that away from me! I don't want my maidenhood to be lost at the hands of some raper or soldier. For my first time, I want to be with someone who I know will be gentle...so that at least I could have one pleasant dream in this chain of nightmares..." she paused and retreated,  
"I want you."  
"How does a girl know a man will be gentle? What if he is crass and brutal like the others? You know what I am. A girl should not trust something of such importance to any man." he finally replied.  
"You are not 'any man', Jaqen. I know because you always treat me gently," she said ruefully, "I know because you are the faceless shadow that has been watching over me."  
"Then, lovely girl, let a man continue to be your faceless shadow."  
"Jaqen, please" she begged  
"A sweet girl is too young, she knows not what she asks. Maybe one night, a man will come to you and have the pleasure of turning a lovely girl into a lovely woman. But that night, is not tonight and that man might not be Jaqen H'ghar." Arya pouted, knowing the battle was lost, but the war could still be won.  
"Fine then. That night may not be tonight but that man must be Jaqen H'ghar!" she declared boldly. He chuckled in response,  
"Then it will be my honour. One day, a man will come and take what a lovely girl offered on this beautiful night. I swear it by the new gods and the old gods beyond counting. I swear it by the light of the full moon."  
"When the time comes, you will come to me, wherever I may be?"  
"Just so."

As if to seal his promise, Jaqen kissed her on the centre of her forehead, nuzzling into her wet hair. In return, Arya kissed him lightly on the hollow of his chest, marking his heart as her possession, feeling it's metric beats pulse beneath her lips and proceeded to fall into his embrace. They stood there silently, finding simple pleasure in just holding each other.

A moment of peace amongst this serial of chaotic confusion.


	4. Sweet

_Swift as a deer._

Ba bump.

_Quiet as a shadow._

Ba bump.

_Calm as water._

Ba bump.

_Quick as a snake._

Ba bump.

_What do we say to the God of Death?_

"Not today. " she whispered. The girl lunged forward, flicked her wrist and it was done. Needle pierced through his throat, its bloodstained tip glinted in the torchlight through the back of the aggressor's thick neck. He thought he had her cornered and only realized he had walked right into her snare as the girl retracted her sword, cleaned it and slid it back into its sheath. The fat man's devilishly toothless grin dissolved from his face while a malicious smile grew on hers. The acolyte watched as the light in the man's eyes diminished and his body slumped onto one of the many dusty back alleyways in Braavos.

'Beth' took a pitying glance at the lifeless merchant lying on the ground before her; his sausage fingers still adorned with precious gems and metals, his limbs limp and his expression pained. His body was clothed in fine silks that had formerly been dyed a hundred different shades and hues, now ruined only by the deep scarlet liquid that flowed like a spring river from his mortal wound. _The Red God takes what is his, and only death may pay for life. A shame that it had to be your own son who sacrificed you to save the life of his concubine. Valar Morghulis, poor man, and one day, it will be his turn._ The smell of death drew scurrying rats near. She patted the dust from her hands and took her leave, trotting sluggishly towards a sunset that looked so familiar and yet so foreign.

It was in the light of this glorious blood orange dome that 'Salty' had arrived in Braavos and found herself in the House of Black and White. She had killed more men and changed more faces than she would care to admit, though time and time again, she put down her sword and returned to the face of Arya Stark, just to see how the girl looked at the height of adolescence. Two years ago they had stripped a girl of three and ten of all her possessions and commanded that she become 'no-one'. She did exactly as she was bid.

Well...almost.

Needle was Westeros. Needle was Winterfell. Needle was Mother, Father, Jon.

Needle was Arya Stark .

Casting the sword away was ridding herself of all identity and the girl simply did not possess the courage to do it. It felt like she was committing some crime against the essence of her being. She knew removing any 'sense of self' was crucial for a Faceless Man. She knew of the consequences to be suffered on the event of the Faceless Men finding her sword. She thought of all the times she could have easily disposed of it . Yet, something within her held onto Needle for its dear life and she could never let the sword go. _It's the direwolf, he is clinging to it,_ she thought,_ it's the icy north encrusted deep within that you have tried to melt in the tropics of Braavos. Yes it wanes and weakens, but it lives on. You are no-one now, girl, just a vessel of the Many Faced God, you promised yourself that this fat merchant will be Needle's last kill. Get rid of the sword. Being wielded by the likes of you will only shame Needle, you will never do the sword justice, nor will you ever let Needle fulfil its true purpose. Give it to someone more worthy, someone who at least lives with the face that their mother and father bestowed upon them._

* * *

Felicity and festivity did not slip away from Braavos as night overshadowed the city. Music and cinders filled the air. She was engulfed her a warm, easy breeze while the stars directed her path to the forge, desperately trying to ignore a searing pain that pinched her heart. She had passed the forge so many times, basked in the heat that seeped from its walls, listened to the songs of iron, tin, copper, gold and silver steel but never paid much attention to the place. Only now she decided it was a most fitting place for Needle. The sword would be born again from this forge in Braavos, taking on a new name and perhaps even a new look. The girl took the sword from her belt and placed it gently at the doorstep. _Good luck Needle,_ she thought, _and goodbye._

She felt empty. A part of her was gone. Arya Stark was dead and done. The girl held her tears as she ran back to the House of Black and White, refusing to acknowledge a gaping hole that appeared where her heart had been, even though it was hurting unbearably, even though she knew she could fix it by simply retrieving her sword._ The Ironmen got it right for once; what is dead may never die, she told herself fiercely, the wound will go away when you become a true Faceless Man, you will be brave and strong and feared, you will stop hurting and you will forget._

* * *

The appetizing aromas of fresh bread and warm soup did not cheer the girl as she ate her dinner quietly beside a marble pillar in the Hall of Gods. The hall was a curious place; twelve giant stone statues of various deities embellished with sparkling jewels stood in a large circle facing inwards, each with pools of coloured water placed before them. The Red God had a pool of ruby red water; the God of Light's pool was topaz; the Smith's onyx, the Warrior's sapphire, the Mother's amethyst and the Father's emerald. In the centre of the circle stood a thirteenth statue; the Many Faced God was a figure with twelve bodies joined at the back and twelve faces that reflected the exact features and expressions of the twelve gods that surrounded him. Encompassing the statue was a ring of clear water. Spears of liquid would rise and fall periodically, dancing around the Many Faced God like a circle of soldiers parading their spikes and cheering their lords before battle. The large stained-glass windows brought coloured light into the Hall of Gods in the day and gleamed beautifully by torchlight during the night. The high ceiling was covered with paintings of ghostly weirwood trees, representing, according to the Kindly Man, the old gods of Westeros.

The girl was so engrossed in watching water spears that she did not notice the man until he was seated beside her. She observed him from the corner of her eye; curly platinum blonde hair, pale as paper, round coral coloured eyes, high cheekbones and thin lips almost hidden by a thick moustache. _Probably just another Faceless Man_, she thought calmly. The girl stood and began to walk away when a voice called out to her;  
"Was it weasel soup that they served tonight, sweet girl?" it said slowly in the common tongue. She turned abruptly on her heel and shot him an incredulous glance.  
"No." she answered firmly, finally meeting his gaze. A smile split across the stranger's face.  
"A man has a thirst, a girl could make a friend" he said, cheekily. Her eyes widened in realization while her heart pounded excitedly like canary bird trying to escape the captivity of her ribcage.  
"I have friends." she replied, trying to hide her grin. She spontaneously threw the contents of her tankard at him, he moved to avoid the attack but water managed to catch his sleeve.  
"Has a girl quenched a man's thirst?" she asked teasingly.  
"No, far from it." he replied with a sly smile and proceeded swiftly to splash water onto the girl from the pool of The Maiden with his hands.  
"Jaqen." she whined in her now wet clothing. It had taken the girl quite unexpectedly and she giggled. They ran about the statues trying to throw water at the other. He cupped the water with his hands and nearly always hit his target. She filled her tankard from the various pools but missed the man by an inch or two each time. The sounds of water droplets and laughter and voices and footsteps echoed through the Hall. The girl could not to recall the last time she had laughed out loud or felt so alive. _It must have been more than a lifetime ago_, she contemplated wistfully.

By the time the pair grew tired of the game they were both drenched to the skin from head to toe.  
"A man sees that a girl has learnt much from the House, but clearly not enough." he taunted.  
"Oh but Jaqen, in case you hadn't noticed you're wet too from trying to splash water at me, how very immature of a Faceless Man." she retorted. "You knew I was here all along, why did you not come to see me?" the girl accused suddenly.  
"A man had duties, lovely girl. Besides, it was the lovely girl who refused a man's offer."  
"Hmph!" she grunted cutely, pouting. He chortled lightly in response.  
"A man apologises for his absence, lovely girl, and asks for forgiveness." The man moved his right hand from his chin to his forehead; his skin tone darkened slightly, his moustache was replaced by stubble, lips filled, cheekbones lowered, his hair flowed red with that familiar silvery-white strand and his eyes again gleamed greyish-blue.  
"A man has come, will a girl return?" he asked in that velvety voice with outstretched arms.

The smile disappeared from the face of 'Beth'. Increased atmospheric tension became evident. _He made that promise to Arya Stark, but I tried to dispose of her. No. She cannot reappear, not when I had just set the boundaries, not when I have just given Needle away._ She was a perplexed girl with a resolve as strong as Valyrian steel. She took a step away from the man.  
"I can't" she said firmly, "I can't return to being Arya Stark if I want to become a Faceless Man."  
"Oh?"  
"I am no-one now. You can't keep the promise you made with Arya Stark because she is gone from this world. Goodbye Jaqen H'ghar." she said coldly as she turned to leave.  
"Girl, wait. A man came across this." She turned and looked at him wearily. Jaqen held out a thin sword with both his hands. Needle.  
"It seems that a girl dropped it." he said, throwing the sword at her. She caught it in her left hand. "Or did a girl leave her sword at the doorstep on purpose. Is 'goodbye' what she said when she abandoned it?" he accused in a sarcastic tone.  
"I cannot be a true Faceless Man if Arya Stark lives. Surely you know that better than anyone. You were the one who gave me the damn coin and taught me Valar Morghulis!" defiance and anger now spawing in her voice._ You are the one who made me what I am!_  
"A man regrets" he said ruefully. "He saw great potential in that girl. He wanted to keep her at his side so he offered the coin. He made her a promise but he cannot fulfil. That wilful, spirited, cunning little girl is gone and it is a man's fault."

Warm tears streamed down the girl's face. He had the truth of the dilemma. The girl, naive in her years, had nowhere to go so she came to the House of Black and White, knowing that she would find Jaqen here but oblivious to the ramifications of becoming a Faceless Man. Yet, the girl soon found that those who serve the Many Faced God have no faces of their own. Sentiment was the virtue and vice and weakness and strength of Arya Stark. 'Beth' and 'no-one' did not possess emotions; for 'love', 'hate', 'anger', 'melancholy' was undeniably malapropos in the House of Black and White. _The Many Faced God be damned!_ she thought frustratedly. The girl remembered the last time she cried. Harrenhal. He had kissed her on the forehead, comforted her, let her rest in his arms, gave her a temporary sense of safety and courage. She reached her hands up, wiping tears away, putting on a false mask of bravery. Her face felt strange; the jaw was too wide, the eyes were too small, the skin was rough and the bridge of her nose was crooked. She hated it.

He watched as she moved her right hand from chin to forehead and smiled solemnly. Her skin became pale, her nose became straight and tall, her jaw slimmed, her eyes were adorned with the icy-grey rings that he had come to love so well.  
"Damn you Jaqen H'ghar," she cried, "It's you! It's always you. You lure out my weakness, you bring out Arya Stark and I am left completely defenceless!" Jaqen stepped forward and engulfed Arya in a tight embrace, to which she made a mediocre attempt at struggling.  
"It is part of a man's charm." he said soothingly.  
"I suppose so..." she sniffled. He trailed his hand down the side of her slim jaw, tilting her chin up towards him. She looked up at him longingly as he slowly pressed a line of kisses from her forehead and down her cheek, finally capturing her lips. The girl immediately tried to take control and so he let her dominate the kiss for several seconds before he gently slithered his hand to grasp her hip, feeling the soft feminine curves of her body, his tongue stealing its way into her mouth and tickling the back of her throat while his teeth scraped her lower lip, re-establishing his dominance.

When he released her, she pulled back quickly, struggling for breath, her lips swollen, body tingling, head dizzy. Her partner's kisses were undeniably passionate and demanding; the man would not let her go until he had done a good and thorough job of exploration, sparing nothing. She leaned her forehead against his, smiling and panting, the tip of his nose nuzzled hers, her fingers entwined in his hair as they looked into each other's eyes.

"Jaqen?"  
"Yes?"  
"Can 'that' night be tonight?" she asked airily.  
"If a lovely girl wills it so." he answered seductively.

* * *

Her nimble fingers went to unlace his breeches while he pulled the wet shift over her head and discarded it into the growing pile that consisted of clothes, belts, knives and various weapons. His lips searched for hers again as he backed the girl onto his feathered bed. Ridding her of her small clothes, he took a second to drink her in with his eyes; observing the way her rounded breasts would rise and fall with her breathing, the way her long limbs glided gracefully against his bed sheets, the way her misty grey eyes looked at him with anticipation, as if challenging him to make the next move.

She watched from his bed as he peeled the wet clothes off his body and made a mental note of a few new scars that decorated his abdomen, adding to the man's masculinity . The man made quick work of his boots and breeches and ascended upon her, his forearms braced on either side of her head, his leg parting her thighs. He was hot, close and heavy; all earth, blood and heat, while she smelt of winter, frost and sugar.

Jaqen kissed her lips swiftly and trailed his hand down to knead her breast, rolling a hardened nipple between his fingers while he began to mark her neck and collarbone liberally with love bites. His lips found their way to the base of her other breast. He nipped at it quickly and took her other nipple in his mouth, flicking with his tongue and biting gently with his teeth, smiling as he noted that she tasted even sweeter than she smelt.

Her body was on fire, blazing touches and rough scrapes of teeth sent shivers down her spine. She arched into his touch while trying to hold back her moans and gasps, now knowing why the prostitutes of Flea Bottom made lewd noises when they were pleasuring a customer. _It's because they felt good too,_ she thought.

His hands traced her curves and his mouth found its way down to the slick wetness between her thighs. She watched as he parted her legs and placed a kiss between her lower lips.

"Jaqen..." she breathed.

"Relax, lovely girl and a man will do the rest." he soothed. He pryed her open with his tongue, sliding up and down, increasing his pressure on an upstroke and lingering the tip of his tongue at the base of her opening. She shivered at his ministrations and Arya bit down on her lip to stop herself from making too much noise.  
"Sweet girl," he breathed, "don't hold back. A man wants to hear this lovely girl's song."  
"I can't even sing. " she retorted.  
"Ah, but it will still be music to my ears."  
She began to repay Jaqen's troubles with throaty moans and cries of his name, as if her body was an instrument and he was the musician. The sounds spurred him on: he accelerated his speed, intensified the pressure applied by his tongue, pressed a finger into her folds lightly, setting her nerves on edge.  
"Stop, stop teasing me," she said huskily, "Jaqen...I want it, I want it now..."  
"What is the magic word?" he purred.  
"Please?" she pleaded. He chuckled. She caught his lips in a firm passionate kiss and was somewhat embarrassed by the fact that she could taste herself on him. The girl reached between them and curled her fingers around his throbbing, painfully large manhood, feeling the veins pulse at her touch.  
"Will it fit?"  
"Ah, lovely girl, for once a man does not know." he whispered teasingly.  
"Well, we'll just have to find out."  
"Just so."

He nudged at her entrance, exerting an incredible amount of self-control; resisting the urge to plunge ruthlessly into her. The man pushed into her an inch at a time, until her body accommodated almost all of him. She reached her arms up to hold him around his neck, entangling her thin fingers in his luscious hair, ignoring the twinge of pain and the seep of blood. Jaqen hissed; partly because of the tightness that surrounded him but also because the girl bit down hard and marked the muscular shoulder of the man to whom she had willingly surrendered maidenhood. _Still the wolf_, he thought, _always the wolf_. For a second, he stilled and waited for Arya's body to adjust to the foreign intrusion. Instinctively, she rocked her hips experimentally against his, encouraging him to move. He proceeded to fill her again with one thrust, eliciting a scream of pleasure (or pain). He pumped into her again, the girl drove her hips upwards in time to meet his. Slowly the pair built up their rhythm; push-pull, give-take, thrust-withdraw, in-out, tense-relax, inhale-exhale. He sucked and nipped at her soft skin, her sweat glimmering in the moonlight like the sweet morning dew, illuminating the strength of her muscles and the loveliness of her body. She clawed her nails into his back with urgency, pulling buds of flesh.

Jaqen began to pound into her with abandon, his rough hands clasping her hips so tightly he was sure to leave bruises, adding to the various sensations. Arya threw her hands over her head, wailing, cursing, moaning, but most of all _feeling_. Feeling him and only him, concentrating on the man who was atop her, sensing his intensity, his desire, his tenderness, his care and above all: his love. She cried. Not tears of loss or sadness that he had seen many times before, but tears of joy as she felt an incredible storm swirling through her body, centering towards her core. Her climax came to her as suddenly as flash of lightning, thundering through every muscle in her body, making her shiver and howl out his name in ecstasy. She came back to her senses just in time to watch him, still rocking her hips in time to his. His eyes stared at her intently, his white teeth biting down hard on his bottom lip, almost piercing through as he tensed and released inside her.  
"Arya," he whispered as he came, "Arya. Arya. Arya. Arya..."  
"Jaqen." she chanted in return, "Jaqen. Jaqen. Jaqen. Jaqen..."

He shifted and slid out of her slowly. Lying beside her, he kissed her gently over the teeth marks he had left and ran his fingers through her soft brown hair contently. She felt a strange sense of emptiness when he left her so, she fitted her body against his, hugging him across the waist, using his chest as a pillow.  
"Lovely girl, are you alright?" he asked softly.  
"Sore, but better than alright. It hurt, but I never wanted to stop." she smiled up at him.  
"A girl, for her first time she was..." he said paused, finished for the correct word as he stroked her cheek, "perfect."  
"I love you." she sighed into his ear.  
"Yer jalan atthirari anni" he said, wrapping his strong arms around her. A while later, she fell asleep feeling happy and secure. He held her close, almost clinging to her and vowing that he should never let go. Yet he knew the day would eventually come when he could never again call her '_mine_'.

**('yer jalan atthirari anni' is 'you are the moon of my life' in Dothraki :D)**


End file.
